


The Secret Fear

by IrishSkumring



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, M/M, Misunderstandings, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 15:12:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13743606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrishSkumring/pseuds/IrishSkumring
Summary: Holmes has been quiet and withdrawn for weeks. Watson worries.(this is not about Watson finding out that Holmes is trans! they have been together for a while and Watson defo knows and is 100% on board)





	The Secret Fear

**Author's Note:**

> this came to me a couple of nights ago, and it's the first time I've had a real urge to write anything for many years, and it just stayed with me. so obviously i had to write it down at 2am. I always imagine Brett!Holmes in canon settings, and a vague Burke morphed with Hardwick!Watson. But this will probably read with whatever headcanon you have for their faces!
> 
> timeline is..... whatever, as if Doyle paid attention to his own damn stories anyway. 
> 
> i have.... so little knowledge about victorian culture outside of tidbits i've picked up and sherlock holmes fics lmao.... i did some research but please excuse Blatant Mistakes. eating while walking? probably not a thing respectable doctors did! don't worry about it.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Holmes."

Watson was looking at him from his seat by the window. He had said his name at least three times, and this time Holmes finally looked up from his newspaper and deigned to acknowledge him. Now that he had his attention, Watson was struggling to continue. He was leaned forward, elbows on knees and hands wringing. He opened his mouth a couple of times before finally speaking when Holmes raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Are you... Do you want to. To finish, ah, this?" He gestured vaguely between them. Holmes sat up from his reclining position on the couch, did a strange half hover between sitting and standing, before some energy propelled him up. To anyone else he would seem calculated and assured in his moves, if energetic. Watson, who knew him well, intimately well, saw his movement for what it was: nervous, fidgety, and agitated.

Holmes rooted around the mantel, although they both knew he knew exactly where his cigarette case was. He found it, took one out and placed it between his lips. Found a matchstick, lit the cigarette, inhaled - and finally looked at Watson while he blew out the smoke and leaned against the mantel. Watson ached - with nerves, anticipation, _longing_ \- but he could not get up, not yet.

"Yes."

"What?"

"Yes, I do want to finish this. It has run its course, Watson, surely you sense it too."

It was strange, how he halfway expected this response yet it hit him square in the chest, like a boxer who had taken a severe disliking to him. That Holmes would throw away years, decades, of intimate relationship in such a callous, uncaring manner stopped his breathing - he was drowning, and he could not believe he was drowning, and he so sorely needed to just touch, just one last time-

Then it was over. And he frowned. And he looked at his friend, properly looked. Observed. Holmes had looked away, again, and kept almost manically smoking his cigarette. It was nearly at the end, and Holmes was already fiddling with his cigarette case. He was cloaking his face. It was so painfully obvious to Watson, who had had decades of learning to read his dear detective's expressions. Holmes was looking away and hiding his face because, for once, he could not hide.

"No, I don't, frankly." Holmes looked at him, sharply, and Watson stared at his eyes intently for those precious few seconds he got before he turned away and opened the cigarette case again, old cigarette still in his mouth. "And I don't think you do either. Holmes," came out in a rush as he stood up, determination fuelling his legs, and clasped his hand around the cigarette case. 

"Holmes, please. I admit I have never seen how you act in a relationship before, I have nothing to compare it with. But with me you were always frank."

Holmes was frozen, staring at their touching hands, and this too was new. He had always been so _responsive_. If he welcomed touch or couldn't stand it, he would always, _always_ , let Watson know. In the beginning it had hurt - feelings and gestures are always so much more, in new relationships, so much bigger - but Watson had learnt, as Holmes had learnt Watson's virtues and vices anew, seen them in a new light from when they first moved in together. Watson put down the case in his hand, while grasping Holmes' with his other.

"I do not - I cannot believe that you would draw back as you had, before declaring us over weeks later, and only when I ask. Holmes." He reached up with the hand that had held the case, cupped Holmes' cheek to turn his head so he would look at Watson. He let it happen, although his eyes were still glued to their hands, his left in Watson's right, Watson's arm trapped between them if he stepped closer.

"Sherlock. Tell me how to save this. Tell me how to talk you through your fears, whatever they are. You have never been scared of the Labouchere Amendment before, surely it cannot be that?"

At the mention of his first name, Holmes looked up, eyes - unbelievably - wet. Watson's thumb, seemingly at it's own accord, stroked his cheek.

"It would be so easy to avoid that altogether, Watson. It would be _so easy_ for you to demand that I- That I go back to _that_. The self my parents knew. I don't understand-" Holmes was suddenly, jerkingly, in motion, turned away from Watson's stroking, caressing hands. Watson made no attempt to keep him where he was, to grasp his hand tighter. He would never keep Holmes where he would not be, even as he desperately wanted to, wanted to feel his skin for what he feared in the darkest corner of his mind, would be the last time. He followed Holmes' movement with his eyes as the detective stomped towards the door. He would miss ( _Will not have to miss, they will come through this, they have been through worse, objectively, they will come through this_ ) seeing Holmes in oil-free hair and his robe slung over his shoulders.

By the staircase, Holmes came to a halt. He kept his back to Watson. "You must see how much easier, how much better it would be if I just. Went back. Lived my life as my mother wished, as surely Mycroft does although he never says as much." He spun around, and his expression was such a frightening mix of naked emotion - fear, frustration, confusion, fear, fear _fear_ \- that Watson could not help the small noise and half-stumble forward he made, hand reaching for his friend. "I could never let you live in constant danger of the law, John. It claws at me, every day, and every day I expect you to look at me and propose the most difficult thing I would have to do."

"You wouldn't have to- I would _never_ -"

It was Holmes' turn to take a half step forward. There was a magnetism between them, charged by the terrible, horrible emotions that had lied dormant until then. "I would have to, don't you see! I could never deny you that life. That easy, danger free life. And the more I think about it- Yes, Watson." All the emotion rushed out, away, and dragged the magnetism with them, and Holmes sagged, "it is finished. We are done."

He turned around, trudged upstairs, infinitely slowly, but even with all the time Holmes' dejectedness gave him, Watson did not speak up before the door to their - to Holmes' - bedroom closed.

Watson brought his hand - the hand that had just seconds, centuries ago, caressed this dear, beautiful, infuriating man's cheek - he brought his hand to cover his face, and sank slowly down on the couch. He sat there, in a parody of the way he sat when he finally asked Holmes the question he had been burning with for the better part of three weeks: elbows on knees, head in his right hand, left hand hanging between his legs. He didn't move until his stomach reminded him that Mrs. Hudson was away visiting relatives and they had not been getting their regular dinner. 

Dragging his hand down his face, he sat for a minute longer before sighing and getting up. Holmes had not been eating well, for reasons suddenly clear to Watson, and he could use the time to think through Holmes exclamations. A good excuse to enter his room would not hurt, besides.

When he came back, fish and chips for one triumphantly in hand, he had found his words and a new determination. There was no hesitation in his step as he scaled the staircase and knocked on Holmes' door. He allowed himself a quiet chuckle and a bittersweet smile as he reminded himself of a young man, standing outside his sweetheart's door with flowers. 

There was no answer from inside, but the door was unlocked so he let himself in.

"Holmes?" He sorely wanted to call him by his first name, but did not dare to take the liberty. "I brought a peace offering."

It was dark in there, but Watson knew the room well and easily navigated his way to the bed, where he could make out the lumpy form of his dear friend. He let out a fond puff of hair through his nose, before dragging over the chair and sitting down by where he assumed a head would be (neatly ignoring the clothes haphazardly thrown on the back of the chair). Normally he would sit on the bed itself, but this was another liberty i dared not take. Not yet. He hoped.

"Holmes, please. You need food." He held out the plate he had placed the fish and chips on, cutlery held in two fingers underneath. He heard the unmistaken rumble of an empty stomach, and the form moved. Slowly, it sat up, blanket somehow still around the shoulders, and reached for the plate.

"Where is yours?"

"I ate while I walked."

Holmes was sitting now, cross legged and plate and sight in his lap.

"You need not be here, Watson, I do know how to feed myself."

Watson was leaning back in the chair - it was not as comfortable as the arm chairs in the sitting room, purely there for keeping as much as possible off the floor, but he felt more assured now than he had in what felt like hours.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"We have talked. Please, Watson. This is the best-"

"No, Holmes. I refuse to let this- this horrible fear consume you like this without at least addressing it."

He could sense that Holmes wanted to argue, wanted this over and done with and move on. As easily as Watson could sense Holmes agitation in the sitting room, however, Holmes could also sense Watson's determination now. Watson could see it when Holmes decided to stay quiet and started cutting into the fish.

"I was. Well, very angry, frankly, that you could think such a thing of me. But I thought about it - I decided to use some of your methods, as it were, although tweaked. I could never claim to live up to you." He smiled fondly, but continued before Holmes could forget to keep his silence. "I know, and fully understand, that although we are both men, I will never have the experience of manhood as you have. I realized this years ago, Holmes. You know this, we have gone through this already. It was painful and probably stretched longer than I should have allowed it, but it is done with. We came through it. So I understand your fear - not fully, of course, I will forever regret that I can never fully understand this part of you, but I _understand_ \- but please, Holmes," and now he leaned forward, he could not keep his body back, it longed for Holmes, "please never again believe that I would make you suffer to make this easier for me."

The fish was only half gone, and he had barely nibbled some chips, but Holmes still neatly placed the cutlery on the plate and the plate on the dresser by the head of the bed. As he did so, he spoke. "I never believed you capable of cruelty, Watson, but it makes sense-"

"No, no it does not. It makes the least amount of sense I have ever heard you uttered. Don't you see?" His hand hovered, his left one, and Holmes moved his head minutely, allowed for skin contact even as they both started when they touched. Neither drew away. 

"I love _you_ , with all my heart, and you would never be you if I forced you to put on the act of a woman and a wife! It would make us both so incredibly miserable, most of all you, and I could never," he slid from the chair to his knees, kneeling in front of Holmes, left hand again at his cheek, caressing, "I could never make you suffer so. You are my heart, Sherlock, and I chose this life. I chose you."

"John." It was choked, and Holmes turned his head into Watson's palm, raising his own hands to hold it in place while he kissed it, ever so gently.

Watson's other hand had gone to Holmes' knee, partly for support, partly for more contact. His body was screaming for it after these three lonely weeks, and with each point of contact it sang. He smiled crookedly.

"Besides," he teased, "do you know how bored you would be as a doctor's wife? I cannot begin to imagine. The torment from your sulking alone would drive us both mad."

There came a teary and distinctly un-Holmes chortle from within their hands at Holmes' face. 

"Stand up you daft man, you were complaining about your knees only last month."

"That was a highly unreasonable jump you asked me to do, only to catch the wrong criminal." Watson was reluctant to break their touching, but he had to in order to get up from his kneeling with minimal protesting from his limbs - only to have his hand grabbed as soon as it was free. He looked down, and his breath nearly caught in his chest. Holmes lifted the hand to him, and reverently kissed his knuckles, while looking up at Watson through disheveled bangs.

"I you too, you know."

Watson could not help bending down and kissing his dear heart thoroughly for that.

**Author's Note:**

> I have always liked the transman!Holmes idea, and I recently came over a lil comic by the wonderful ghostbees ( http://ghostbees.tumblr.com/post/135071463435 ) about just how much sense it makes within canon, and now it's just. a permanent fixture whenever I read anything with Holmes (especially when set in Victorian times, but any version applies). 
> 
> comments (even just exclamation points! or question points!) are always appreciated but kudos feeds me just as well <3
> 
> also i realize i forgot about the cigarette in Holmes' mouth. don't worry about that either.
> 
> also also - tell me how I did in keeping the trans aspect period appropriate but also respectful of how it's addressed today? because i hate period work that uses the time it's set in to excuse transphobia, but i didn't want it to be too utopia of the topic, if that makes sense!


End file.
